The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions
by Read The Subtext
Summary: Set during episode 6x07 - 'System Failure.' Claudia Joy struggles to deal with her diagnosis, and Denise offers her a shoulder to cry on. Has Jackie irreparably damaged their relationship, or will she bring them closer than they've ever been before?
1. Chapter 1

I see the fear in Emmalin's eyes, notice how preoccupied she is, and I hate myself for putting her through this. I'm wrenching her away from normality again, reminding her that life's too fragile to take for granted, and that's not a lesson a nineteen-year-old should have to learn. Emmalin should be out having fun with her friends, not worrying about me, but I know every second she spends in this hospital room is cleaving open old wounds. All I can do is pretend that I'm taking all of this in my stride; that the needles don't hurt when they pierce through my skin, that the bruises aren't as bad as they look, that I'm not so exhausted it's taking everything I have to stay awake. I ignore the bone-deep ache in my joints and smile through the pain, trying to focus on the conversations going on around me. I wonder if my performance is convincing enough to shield my daughter from the hopelessness I'm feeling, or if she can see through the act.

I've spent the past two years micro-managing my diet, monitoring my glucose levels, trying to prevent my body from betraying me. The knowledge that I could still keel over at a moment's notice was never far from my mind, but at least my diabetes was manageable. At least I had some degree of control over my own life. Denise saw me at my worst, curled up in a helpless heap on Pamela's kitchen floor, but she made me realise that a moment of weakness wasn't going to alter people's perceptions of me forever.

All of that's about to change. The hospital's poised to become my second home, I'm going to be dependent on dialysis for the rest of my life, and even Roxy doesn't know what to say to me any more. I wonder if things will get easier over time, or if my relationships are destined to become characterised by awkward silences and stunted small talk. I'll be an object of pity; stopped in the street by insincere well-wishers, mollycoddled by my friends and family. My illness will always be at the forefront of everyone's minds, and every conversation will start with, "_How are you feeling today, Claudia Joy?"_

I don't want people to think that I need their help. I don't want them gossiping behind my back, or speculating about whether I'm falling apart at the seams. I don't want to be a burden.

When Michael leaves for the night, it gets harder to stave off the despair. I think of Amanda, and wonder if she'll be waiting for me if this illness slowly and insidiously destroys me; if I decide that fighting isn't worth it any more. It's a comforting thought, but I can't bring myself to believe it. I go to Church every Sunday, I exchange pleasantries with the Chaplain, but I'm only going through the motions because it's what's expected of me. It's hard to keep on praying when your prayers are never answered, and there's a gulf between me and God that I don't think I'll ever be able to bridge. Maybe that's why He's so intent on punishing me.

As always, when I think of the daughter who was snatched away from me before she could experience everything life had to offer, it doesn't take long for the guilt to seep in. People are too kind to say it, but Amanda died that night because I took a detour to the Hump Bar instead of taking her straight to the train station. She never would've left the sanctuary of my car if I hadn't stopped to talk to my friends; if I hadn't kept her waiting for so long. She never would've left the safety of our house if only I'd listened to Michael's concerns in the first place. Like David Masterson, Amanda died because I made a stupid decision; because I thought I was infallible. Maybe this is exactly the kind of punishment I deserve.

My musings turn to my husband, who's been spending every evening holed away in his study, striving to get the recognition he deserves. I don't want to be a distraction, I don't want him to feel guilty for prioritising his career over me. He never has before. The fact that Michael accepted this promotion without even consulting me tells me how much it means to him, and I know he can't afford to be lumbered with a needy, sickly wife who consumes too much of his time and attention. The thought of throwing him off his game; of jeopardising his chances of getting a Third Star, makes me feel even more nauseous. All I can do is tell him that I'm fine and hope that he believes it.

Denise used to be the only person I could fall apart in front of; the only person I could share my worries and concerns with without feeling painfully exposed, but things are different between us now. Leaning on her seems selfish when she's suffered enough heartache of her own, and even though I know she never meant to betray my confidence, a part of me can't help but wonder if she'll innocently repeat our conversations to Jackie Clarke. I don't want that woman to know how vulnerable I'm feeling. I don't want her to think that she can swoop in and take everything because I'm too weak to fight back.

I want to believe that things can go back to the way they were, that Jackie doesn't have the power to poison my relationship with Denise, but in a way, she already has. I can't escape the fact that, when push came to shove, Denise chose Jackie over me. Maybe I shouldn't have put Denise in that position in the first place, maybe it was petty of me to feel jealous and insecure, but I thought after everything we'd been through together, I could rely on Denise for support. I thought nothing could destroy the bond between us. Now, as much as I try to give Denise the benefit of the doubt, as much as I try to convince myself that she was simply going out of her way to make an old friend feel welcome, it doesn't change the fact that she left me behind. She cut me out of her life, and over some stupid argument about over-priced table pieces, she told me she didn't need me any more.

I tried freezing Denise out, I tried to punish her for relegating me to second best, but it was too hard to keep my distance. It was easier to accept Denise's apology than tell her how much she'd hurt me; it was easier to take some of the blame than admit that I felt betrayed. I need Denise in my life, and feeling uncertain about our friendship is better than having no friendship at all.

I can't help but wonder, though, if the situation with Denise kept me from seeing the warning signs. My kidneys were failing and I didn't even notice. I felt depressed, and I attributed it to the hollow feeling in my gut every time I looked out of my window and saw Denise sitting on Jackie's front porch. I went to bed feeling sick to the stomach, and I thought it was because I was losing my best friend. I was physically exhausted, but I just assumed the emotional turmoil was taking its toll. It never occurred to me that something was seriously wrong.

Now it's too late. The damage is done. There are so many questions I'm frightened to voice aloud. A part of me wants to know exactly how debilitating this illness is going to be, but the other part of me is terrified of hearing the answer.

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I don't hear Denise enter the room until she's hovering over my bed, looking concerned. I can see the sympathy etched across her features, and I hope that she's here because she wants to be, not out of some sense of obligation.

"I thought I'd sneak away to come and tuck you in for the night," she says, offering me a warm smile. And then there's the inevitable, "How are you doing?"

"I'm OK." I try and smile back, but I can tell from Denise's worried frown that the effort looks as strained as it feels. "Just a little tired, that's all," I hastily amend, because I know a generic response isn't going to cut it. "It's been a long day."

"I know." Denise's expression softens and she crosses the room, perching on the edge of my bed. "It's a lot to take in, huh?"

"For everyone," I acknowledge, and I can't look at her right now, because I'm scared of what I might say.

"Claudia Joy, you didn't ask for this," Denise reminds me, almost as if she knows what I'm thinking. "It's not your fault."

She reaches for my hand and holds it gently in her lap, running her thumb back and forth across my knuckles. That simple gesture of kindness almost breaks me, because it suddenly dawns on me just how much I've missed the comfort and warmth of her touch. I nod in agreement, because that's what Denise expects me to do, but she looks disappointed when I don't take the opportunity to confide in her.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asks instead, and I shake my head, trying to make my smile more convincing this time around.

"No, I'm all set."

"Then I should probably let you get some rest." She reluctantly lets go of my hand, and I fight the urge to cling to her. I don't want to be alone tonight.

"I'll check on you again tomorrow, OK?"

"Sounds great." I can barely get the words out, but I manage to convey some degree of enthusiasm.

"OK... well... goodnight," Denise murmurs, and her voice is every bit as tender as the kiss she presses against my cheek. Her lips are soft, and for a fleeting moment, I can feel her breath warming my skin; her hand resting lovingly against my shoulder. When she pulls back, the numbness returns, and I tug on my blanket in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

It takes me a moment to fight back the tears, but I manage to look at her without crumbling.

"Goodnight," I echo robotically, even though it's anything but.

* * *

I thought sleep would come easily, that it would offer me a much-needed reprieve, but it feels like hours since I first closed my eyes. Just when I think I've tuned everything out, my brain goes into overdrive again, subjecting me to an endless cycle of what-ifs. I try to suppress the worry, to ignore my worst fears, but even exhaustion can't help me to escape from my own mind.

I wait until the hustle and bustle outside of my door dies down, until the room is swathed in darkness, and then I finally let myself cry. At least if I get this out of my system now, I won't be wallowing in self-pity tomorrow. Emmalin needs me to be optimistic about the future, and if she saw me like this, I'd never forgive myself.

Once I start crying, I can't stop. I tell myself to get a grip, that things could be a hell of a lot worse, that I've led a privileged life compared to most people, but I feel like I'm suffocating; that I can't suck in enough air between sobs; that I'm drowning in my own tears.

"Hey..."

It takes me a moment to realise that Denise is standing in the doorway, and when I see the look of consternation on her face, I realise that she isn't just doing her job, she's here because she cares.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to pull it together and try and preserve what little dignity I have left, but Denise's compassion only makes me cry harder. She bends over at the waist and wraps her arms around me, tucking her chin against my shoulder. I feel her weight settling over me and for a moment it's hard to breathe, but the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate when she pulls me close, stroking my hair. I cling to her with what little strength I have left, and let her see me cry uninhibitedly. I haven't broken down like this since Amanda's death, but at least that was in the privacy of my own bathroom.

"I'm sorry, Denise. I'm so sorry," I wheeze, because I still have no control over the tears that are pouring down my cheeks. My nose is running and I'm leaving a wet patch on her scrubs, but she just holds me tighter, rocking me back and forth.

"Don't apologise," she says, and I hear the hitch in her own voice, "You're the last person in the world who deserves to suffer like this, Claudia Joy. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to be angry." Her words become muffled as she buries her face in the crook of my neck. "Just promise me you won't give up, OK?"

"I'm n-not... I'm not as s-strong as everyone thinks," I admit, and my heart lurches a little when Denise pulls back.

"You don't have to be. Not with me."

Denise uses her sleeve to dry my cheeks and when I finally summon the courage to meet her gaze, I realise that her eyes are swimming with tears, too. It doesn't take long to discern that what I'm seeing is empathy, not pity, and Denise's expression is so understanding I start to believe that maybe, with her support, I can get through this after all.

I nod my gratitude, and she scoops me up again, cradling me close until I finally claw back some semblance of composure. When she squeezes my hand and crosses the room, I assume that she's preparing to leave, but instead she glances up and down the corridor and then closes the door. I can't help but wonder if anyone else bore witness to my meltdown, and the mere possibility makes me feel painfully self-conscious.

"You don't have to stay," I inform Denise, embarrassed by the hoarseness in my voice, "I don't want to drag you away from your work."

"My shift's almost over," she assures me, "And I have my pager if anyone needs me. Most of my patients are asleep now, anyway."

She sinks onto the bed next to me, giving me a gentle nudge.

"Scoot over," she commands, and I regard her curiously.

"Why?"

"Because I'm staying with you until you fall asleep," she responds matter-of-factly, and I raise my eyebrows, not sure whether to feel touched or amused.

"Denise, that's really not necessary," I assure her. "I let things overwhelm me for a moment, that's all. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, I'm not leaving you like this, Claudia Joy." She has that intent, determined look, and I can feel my resolve weakening.

"Denise..." My last protest falls on deaf ears, because Denise is already swinging her legs onto the bed and edging under my blanket. I have no choice but to move over and accommodate her.

"What if someone sees us?" I demand, "You can get fired for falling asleep on the job."

"Claudia Joy, I wouldn't even _have _this job if you hadn't asked Joan to put in a good word for me," she points out, levelling me with a sweet smile and a mischievous wink, "And besides, we were told to take special care of the Corps Commander's wife."

I open my mouth, and then abruptly close it again, because if I'm honest with myself, I don't really want Denise to go; even if this feels a little awkward, even if my heart is suddenly pounding a whole lot faster than it should be.

"Come here," she says softly, opening her arms, and after a moment's hesitation, I lean into her embrace, curling against her side. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and I rest my head against her chest, listening to her breathe in and out. I'm used to the rigid contours of Michael's body, but Denise is soft, and warm, and makes for a much more comfortable pillow. She caresses my forearm, plays with my fingers, strokes my hair, and I feel the tension start to ebb away. I close my eyes and snuggle closer, and Denise's perfume eclipses the smell of bleached sheets and sterile walls.

"It's going to be a long road, Claudia Joy, and it's going to be hard, but I'll be with you every step of the way," she informs me, and the arm that encircles my hips feels both protective and fortifying, "We all will."

"Thank you," I choke out, because it's exactly what I needed to hear. I smooth my hand over Denise's stomach, and we lapse into a comfortable silence. My brain finally allows me a moment's peace, and now all I can hear is the steady rhythm of Denise's heartbeat; all I can feel is the lazy motion of her hand tracing patterns against my side, and the wisps of her breath rustling through my hair. A distant part of me knows that - after the events of the past few weeks - I shouldn't give myself over to Denise like this, I shouldn't rely on her to piece me back together, but right now, I'm too content to care.

In a matter of minutes, I can feel myself drifting off, but before I can fall over the precipice, Denise pulls me back.

"Claudia Joy?" she whispers, and I shift in her arms until I can see her face. The sadness in her eyes takes me by surprise, and I find myself frowning in concern.

"I know things have been a little strained between us, and I just wanted to say how sorry I am," she informs me, and the implied remorse is written all over her face, "I said some things in the heat of the moment that I didn't mean, and I - "

"Denise, it's all water under the bridge now," I reassure her, because as much as I need to hear this, I can't stand to see her pained expression.

"Maybe so, but I shouldn't have walked away from you like that. I shouldn't have said all of those hurtful things when you were just trying to help me." I feel her fingertips brush against my hand. "I never meant to drive a wedge between us."

I struggle to hold back a sigh. "I know."

"Then why do I get the feeling that you're still not convinced?" She regards me imploringly, tilting my chin upwards until we're eye-to-eye. "Tell me what you're thinking."

I wonder how much to reveal. I'm terrified of making Denise angry, of alienating her all over again, and I'm not sure if it's possible to verbalise - or justify - what I've been feeling.

"I want to trust your judgement, Denise..." I begin earnestly, "I want to believe that Jackie's a good person, but I've dealt with so many Jennifer Connors and Lenore Bakers, I still find it hard to believe that she "accidentally" disclosed Michael's retirement plans."

I raise a hand to forestall Denise's objections.

"I know you think I'm being paranoid, but look at it from my perspective, Denise. Jackie's been playing this game for a long time; she knows how the rumour mill works. She's an intelligent woman, she _must _have understood how that information could impact on Michael's career."

I chance a glance at Denise, hoping I haven't said anything untoward. I'm trying to be diplomatic, but I don't know if I can maintain the charade for long.

"Maybe I shouldn't have been so aggressive when I confronted her," I concede, still trying to sugar-coat my dislike for Denise's friend, "But Jackie made it clear that she's been doing her research. She knows about Michael's DUI. She knows he was blacklisted after the interview he gave in Afghanistan. She thinks his career should have been over a long time ago."

"You really think that she's out to sabotage you?" Denise asks, and to my relief, she looks more concerned than incredulous.

"I don't know." I shrug, mulling over what to say next. "Maybe it _was_ just a coincidence that she turned up during an FRG meeting. Maybe she _wasn't _trying to undermine me when she spearheaded the Craig Morgan concert." I take a moment to try and rein in my scepticism, "Maybe this whole community outreach crusade isn't just a game of one-upmanship."

"And maybe she's just trying to live up to your legacy, Claudia Joy," Denise observes, twining her fingers through mine. "You won the Muriel Spenser Award, after all. We all know Jackie's got her work cut out for her." She hesitates, and I regard her expectantly, waiting for her to say what's on her mind.

"It's not like you, to be this competitive," she concludes, haltingly.

She's right. I bow my head, knowing that I'm going to have to tell Denise the whole truth.

"Denise, this was never really about the FRG, or Michael's promotion. I _want _Jackie to be good at her job, and if Kevin really is a worthy candidate for a Third Star - if the decision's based purely on merit - then I can learn to live with that." I try to swallow around the lump in my throat. "What I can't live with is... is losing my best friend."

"Claudia Joy - " Denise looks confused, like she's poised to dismiss my concerns, so I cut her off before she has the chance.

"I felt like Jackie was trying to steal you away from me," I admit, and I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, because I know how puerile that sounds. "That afternoon, when she invited me over to help with the seating arrangements, I felt like she deliberately orchestrated the whole thing so I'd see the two of you together. You stopped coming around for coffee every morning, and started working out with Jackie instead. You cancelled our lunch dates because you were too busy planning events for her. You seemed so in awe of her, Denise, and it was like... it was like you didn't have time for me any more. "

Denise's eyes are shining, and she tightens her grip on my hand. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I didn't want to sound petty, or needy. You're entitled to have other friends, Denise, but Jackie just seemed... she seemed like more than that." I bite my lip, evading eye contact so Denise won't see how raw I'm feeling right now. "Maybe you're right, maybe I'm reading too much into this," I eventually confess, "But you asked me why I felt so threatened by Jackie Clarke, and it's..." Tears bubble up in my throat, and my eyes start to burn, "It's because ever since she got here, I feel like I don't matter to you any more. That maybe... maybe her friendship is more important to you than mine."

Denise sucks in a sharp breath, and when I finally dare to look up, I realise that she's crying.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't get upset." My heart constricts and I use the back of my hand to chase away her tears, feeling horribly guilty. "I'm so sorry. This is stupid. We're not in high school anymore."

"Claudia Joy, you mean more to me than Jackie Clarke ever will," Denise says fervently, and her tone is so sincere, so intense, that I actually dare to believe her. "If I made you question that for even a second, then I'm the one who's sorry. You're my best friend. You're the reason I'm still sane." She offers me a watery smile, running her fingertips over my cheeks, "And I love you so much."

The dam finally breaks, and for a moment, all I can do is nod through my tears. "I love you, too," I eventually choke out, and when I blink away the blurriness, I realise that Denise is looking at me like she used to, with the kind of affection that warms me from the inside out. She's studying my expression, searching for something intangible, and then suddenly she's leaning towards me and I'm not doing anything to stop her.

The kiss is chaste at first, tentative, gentle, and I'm the one who prolongs the contact, cupping Denise's head in my hands, drawing her closer. Her mouth covers mine again, and this time it's comfort and passion; longing and desperation all rolled into one. I know this is wrong, that I need to stop, but Denise's lips are like a panacea and I can't prise myself away; not when she's making me forget where I am, or why I'm here. I've spent the day almost catatonic with fatigue, and she's making me feel alive again. I was on the verge of giving up, and now I'm alight with an urgency I can barely contain. I'm not even cognizant of the pain anymore, only the softness of Denise's lips and my own arousal; coiling in the pit of my stomach; surging through my veins. It's only when Denise's hand grazes my ribcage en route to my thigh that I moan and jerk away. I need to think, not feel, and she's making it too hard.

"We can't," I gasp, and Denise looks every bit as mortified as I feel.

"Oh God," she says, and her hand flies to her mouth. "Claudia Joy, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I just wanted to...I didn't mean..."

"I know," I tell her, even though I don't. I don't understand why Denise crossed a line that has always been written, albeit hazily, in the sand, and I can't comprehend why I encouraged her to take the plunge. And now I don't know why - despite the guilt that's already gnawing at me - I desperately want her to do it again.

Denise looks like she's about to bolt, and a part of me wants to let her, but I can't bear the thought of this destroying what we've only just repaired. I cling to her shoulders, and suck in a shaky breath.

"Don't go," I beg, and her expression softens a little. "I'm upset, and you're...you're tired," I add, even though I know there's nothing I can say to explain this away. "Let's just... forget this ever happened, OK?"

Denise looks at me dubiously, as if I don't already know that I'm asking the impossible.

"I..." She hesitates, and I hold my breath. "OK," she eventually agrees. She settles back down besides me, but it feels different this time. Her arms are rigid and I can feel her hands trembling against my hip.

"Denise..."

"Don't say anything," she implores, and I bite my lip, nodding. It takes a moment, but eventually she relaxes against me, and I dare to wrap an arm around her waist.

"Go to sleep, Claudia Joy," she murmurs, and I repress a shiver as her breath caresses my cheek. It already feels like I'm dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up to the sensation of Denise gingerly disentangling herself from me, and I try to rein in my disappointment. I force myself not to move as she eases her way off the bed, and concentrate on keeping my breathing even while she rearranges the blankets around me. For a moment, there's silence, and I wonder why she's hesitating; why I can't hear her footfalls moving towards the door. Then I sense her coming closer, feel her lips delicately brushing against my forehead, and I can't stop my eyelids from fluttering in response. I hear her breath catch, and I don't have to see her expression to know how panicked she's feeling right now, because my own heart is hammering against my chest. I decide to make things easier for both of us and make a show of sighing and turning over. A part of me hopes that she'll call my bluff and say something - anything - to negate the events of the past few hours. She doesn't.

I wait until the door shuts softly behind her and then I hurriedly turn over my pillows, so I don't have to look at the indentation she's left behind, so I don't have to breathe in the lingering scent of her shampoo. The coolness against my cheek doesn't bring me any clarity, but I'm not fretting over painful treatments and long-drawn-out recoveries any more. Instead, I keep re-living that kiss, trying to reason it away; trying to rationalise my response. I was vulnerable, Denise caught me off-guard, and I confused my need for comfort with something else. Only that doesn't explain why, for a few indelible moments, I kissed her back with the kind of heated intensity I didn't think I was capable of feeling anymore - not after twenty years of marriage. Now the floodgates are open, and I can't stop myself from picturing Denise in ways that I've always tried desperately hard not to. I keep imagining what my sweet, beautiful friend looks like in the throes of ecstasy. I keep seeing the look on her face when we broke apart, how her eyes were hooded with desire before the fear and the regret set in. The taste of Denise's lips; the weight of her against me; the intimacy of her touch – the memories are already seared into my subconscious, but I know I have to forget them. Somehow.

* * *

The next morning, Michael greets me with his usual close-mouthed peck on the lips, and I try not to flinch. I can smell coffee on his breath, and it's never bothered me before, but now the odour seems overpowering. I feel sick with shame, so I wrap my arms around his neck and try and lose myself in his sturdy embrace. It's comfortable, and it's familiar, but it doesn't compare to last night's dizzying free-fall.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay, Claudia Joy?" he asks, after Doctor Davies stops by to run over my treatment plan.

I shake my head, trying to look nonchalant. I'm nervous about the dialysis, but I know he has more important things to do.

"Michael, trust me, it'll be like watching paint dry. Besides, Emmalin already said that she'll keep me company."

He looks like he wants to object, but instead he settles for clasping my hand. "I don't know how you do it," he informs me, sounding a little awestruck. "You put most of my soldiers to shame."

"Well, it's not like I have a choice," I point out, laughing to mask the bitterness behind my assertion.

He still looks concerned, so I squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

"Michael, stop worrying," I command. "Millions of people have to go through this every day. I'm in good hands."

"All right," he says begrudgingly, "But if you change your mind, call me. I'll make sure I'm available to contact."

He leans in for another kiss, and I force myself to reciprocate.

"We'll get through this, Claudia Joy," he informs me, and even though I've heard him echo the same sentiment countless times already, I manage to muster a smile.

"Of course."

"Just hang in there, and you'll be home before you know it."

He looks at me, then, and I can see that he's scared, too. His worry only exacerbates my guilt, and I'm blind-sided by the sudden surge of affection I feel for him.

"One last hug for luck?" I ask, opening my arms, and he nods, only too happy to oblige. I close my eyes and try and convince myself that this is the only sustenance I need, that I don't feel infinitely more content in Denise's embrace, that Michael's words of reassurance resonate just as much as hers do. Except they don't.

"Do you guys have to do that in public?" Emmalin asks from the doorway, and I laugh, using her arrival as an excuse to pull away.

"And good morning to you, too." My smile rapidly fades when I see the grave expression on my daughter's face. "What's wrong?"

"You're kidding, right? Have you seen yourself lately?" She rolls her eyes at me, but her levity doesn't last for long. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Emmalin, I already told you, _no,_" Michael says, warningly. "Don't burden your mother with this."

"Michael, she can say whatever she wants." I beckon Emmalin over to the bed. "What is it, honey?"

My stomach starts to churn when my daughter takes my hand and announces,

"I've been thinking about it all night and... I want to give you one of my kidneys, Mom."

* * *

Emmalin won't take no for an answer, so I'm relieved when the Doctors make the decision for her. I may have lost my only chance at living a normal life, but at least my daughter won't have to sacrifice her hockey career. She's upset, and angry, but she snaps out of her funk when she sees the size of the needles they're preparing to use for my dialysis. I find them intimidating, too, but Emmalin has no idea how dry my mouth is, and I clasp my hands in my lap so she can't see them shaking.

I expect Denise to stop by at some point during the four-hour session, but the minutes drag on and there's still no sign of her. I wonder if she's avoiding me, and that thought pains me a whole lot more than the treatment itself. Every time I hear footsteps outside, I look up, hoping to see her standing in the doorway. When the footsteps continue unabated, that hope quickly turns to disappointment.

I ask Emmalin about hockey, about her studies, about boys – anything to take my mind off myself. I try to look engaged while she answers my questions, but my thoughts keep drifting to Michael. He was so angry when he found out that Grant Chandler had tried – albeit unsuccessfully – to kiss me. He could barely stand to look at Denise after she had an affair. In fact, he practically banned her from our house. The thought of him finding out about last night's indiscretion makes me feel queasy. He would be devastated, and I already know that nothing I could say would repair the wound. Thank God I can trust Denise not to tell anyone. It will always be our cross to bear, and ours alone.

Emmalin obviously spent the night trawling the internet, because now she's reeling off statistics and anecdotes to try and make me feel better about my prognosis. I want to tell her enough is enough, that she's only driving home the fact that my illness is set to define my existence from now on, but I know she's just trying to put her own mind at rest. I do my best to humour her, because it's not like I can take a time out; not when I'm being forced to spend the best part of my afternoon welded to a chair. My buttocks are numb, my back is aching, but I don't even think about complaining until my legs seize up in agonising cramps. It happens so suddenly, I can't withhold a gasp of pain, and Emmalin jumps to her feet, looking horrified.

"Mom? What's going on? What's wrong?"

"My...uh... my legs are starting to hurt," I inform the Nurse, doing my best not to wince as I break out in a cold sweat. I grip the arms of the chair, taking shallow breaths, and she rushes to my side.

"It's OK, Claudia Joy, try not to panic. I know it's painful, but unfortunately, it's a common side effect of dialysis." She fiddles with the settings on the imposing machine. "Things should get easier once you start limiting your fluid intake. I'm going to slow down the rate of ultrafiltration and hopefully that will help. I don't really want to end your session prematurely, especially as it's your first time."

"So she's just supposed to grin and bear it?" Emmalin demands. "Isn't there something you can give her for the pain?"

"Emmalin, I'm sure the Nurse knows what she's doing," I reprimand her, through gritted teeth.

"We don't want to pump your Mom full of drugs while we're cleansing her system," the Nurse informs Emmalin, leaning down to massage my calves, "But some patients find that taking vitamin E supplements helps. We used to administer quinine, but since the FDA published their research on its side effects, we can't take that risk anymore."

I can barely bring myself to grunt in response, and the Nurse gives me a sympathetic smile. "Fifteen more minutes, Claudia Joy, and this will all be over."

"Until next time," I observe laconically. If Emmalin wasn't hovering over me, I'd be tempted to cry.

"What can I do?" my daughter asks me, sounding a little desperate.

I pat her arm consolingly. "It's OK, honey. I'm feeling a lot better now."

The Nurse probably knows that I'm lying, but Emmalin doesn't have to.

The needles hurt more coming out than they did going in. The numbing agent wore off a long time ago, and I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to suppress a whimper. I tell myself that I've overcome the biggest hurdle, that there are no more surprises down the line, that this is as painful as it's going to get, but the thought of going through this three times a week is somehow more depressing than the uncertainty I felt this morning.

* * *

"Am I interrupting?"

I'd given up all hope of seeing Denise today, so when she appears in my doorway, looking a little sheepish, my stomach nearly plummets to my knees.

"No, of course not," I reassure her. I'm conscious of Emmalin sitting by my side, so I try and act as casual as possible, levelling Denise with a warm smile. I can't stop my eyes from lingering on her face, though, trying to get a read on her expression, searching for any lasting evidence of our infidelity.

"I just wanted to stop by before my shift ends," she informs me, and her words tumble out a little too quickly. "Are you OK?"

The question takes on a double meaning, but I choose to answer it literally. "Yeah. Dr Davies thinks I'll be able to go home in the morning," I tell her, trying to sound pleasantly surprised.

"Oh! Wonderful," Denise enthuses, and although I don't doubt her sincerity, our conversation already feels stilted, like we're just going through the motions.

Denise's eyes stray to my arm, focussing on the unsightly, mottled bruises that are starting to form there. She hums her sympathy, and I tug on my sleeve, feeling strangely self-conscious.

"Dr Davies says it's a perfectly normal reaction," I reiterate, trying not to sound defensive. I already feel like damaged goods, and now I'm starting to look the part, too. I realise that I've essentially been reduced to parroting my physician, and feel even more ill-at-ease. We can't talk like this. Not with Emmalin hanging on our every word.

I glance at my daughter, and suppress a sigh of relief when she seems to take the hint.

"I'm gonna go get some coffee," she announces, packing up her books. "Do you want anything?"

I shake my head. "No, thanks."

Emmalin extends the offer to Denise, and my heart aches a little as I watch them interact. I know my daughter views Denise as a second mother, and I can't help but wonder how she would react if she knew the truth.

I wait until Emmalin heads for the door, and then I glance shyly up at Denise. I have to stop myself from closing my eyes and saying a silent prayer of thanks when she smiles at me and, without any hesitation, settles onto the corner of my bed. At least she's not trying to keep her distance. Her arm accidentally brushes against my knee, and I try to ignore the jolt of awareness that races along my spine and settles in the pit of my stomach.

I make a valiant effort to keep the conversation flowing, fiddling with the bandage around my arm to offset the awkwardness. I tell Denise about Emmalin, about what she wanted to do for me, and she listens attentively. She's all warmth and understanding, but I keep trailing off between sentences, struggling to gather my thoughts. The way she looks at me during those long pauses makes my heart pound and my palms perspire, but I keep talking, until I start to believe that maybe we can white-wash over this whole thing after all.

I have to know for certain, though, so I reach for Denise's hand, waiting to see if she'll pull away from me. She doesn't, she just manoeuvres her way around the pulse oximeter clipped to my index finger until we find a more comfortable fit. She sighs a little and smiles at me, but it's the kind of loaded smile that reminds me we're both taxed with keeping the same secret.

"We're going to be OK, Claudia Joy," she says softly, and I nod my assent, because I want to believe that as much as she does. I wrench my eyes away from Denise's fingers, because I shouldn't be studying them like this; I shouldn't be noticing how long and elegant they are, or imagining what they would feel like inside of me.

"How was dialysis?" she asks, and the all-too-familiar lie is already on the tip of my tongue. Denise knows me better than that, though, and I can't pull the wool over her eyes.

"It was... hard," I eventually concede, swallowing the swell of emotion that's rising in my throat. "Not at first, but my legs started to cramp towards the end of the session." Seeing Denise's sympathetic expression, I heave a weary sigh. "I thought I'd feel rejuvenated, but I just feel... drained."

"I'm so sorry, Claudia Joy." Denise caresses the back of my hand with her thumb. "This isn't fair."

"Well, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?" I attempt a smile, but it feels more like a grimace.

Denise regards me sadly, rubbing my knee with her other hand, and I wonder how a seemingly benign gesture can elicit such a potent pang of longing.

"The sessions should get easier over time," she assures me, "I'll dig out my textbooks later on tonight and see if there's anything we can do to help you with the pain."

"The Nurse already ran over my options, but thank you," I say, gratefully.

She looks like she's poised to say something else, but Emmalin chooses that moment to return from the cafeteria. It's a completely irrational response, but I drop Denise's hand like it's a hotcake, and she hastily jumps off the bed.

Emmalin looks a little perplexed. "Everything OK?" she ventures, and we both turn to face her with a sunny smile.

"Fine," we blurt out in perfect unison, and Denise glances at me, biting her lip.

"Well, there's a patient down the hall I need to check on before I leave," she says, pointing aimlessly towards the door, "I should probably - "

"Yeah, of course... don't let me keep you," I hurriedly interject, doing my best to sound good-natured.

I'm not expecting the goodbye kiss, so when Denise leans towards me, my eyes widen a little. We've done this a thousand times before, but now I don't know where to look, or which cheek to turn. Our first attempt ends up being more of a clumsy air-kiss, and so I bridge the gap again, hurriedly brushing my lips against Denise's cheek. When I pull back, my face is burning, and Denise looks more than a little flustered herself.

"OK...well..." She raises her hand towards Emmalin, "See you later, kiddo."

"See ya," Emmalin echoes, raising her eyebrows at me when Denise leaves the room. "Well, that was weird," she observes, and all I can do is laugh in response, because I know if I try to deny it, if I make a big deal about it, "weird" might become "suspicious."

* * *

When Michael suggests that I go to stay with my parents for a while, I'm stunned. I've tried to be as low-maintenance as possible since arriving back home, but now I feel like an inconvenience; like I'm getting in his way. He assures me that it's for my own benefit, that he's only trying to stop me from running around like a headless chicken when I should be resting, but I can't help but wonder if I'm becoming a liability. Maybe Michael doesn't want to go to bed with a wife who's covered in bruises, wrapped in bandages and shedding weight like water; maybe he doesn't want to feel responsible for my welfare when he already has thousands of troops to take care of.

I know he's itching to go to the rally point and see off his men, so I pretend I'm fine with the prospect of crawling into a cold, empty bed again. I lie there and think about all the extra meals my friends are going to cook for me; all the visits they're going to feel obliged to make. With Frank and Trevor gone, Denise and Roxy are going to be busier than ever trying to juggle work, the FRG and their children. They certainly don't need me clogging up their schedules. Maybe Michael's right. Maybe I am better off out of the way.

I don't have the best relationship with my mother, and it'll kill my father to see me like this, but at least I won't be dragging them away from their own families; at least I know they have the time to spare. The thought of being dependent on my parents again is daunting, but Emmalin will be visiting every weekend, and I know she'll happily act as a buffer. My daughter's only been gone for a few hours, and I miss her already.

Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Denise, and I wonder how she's faring after watching Frank fly off to a war-zone for the umpteenth time. I reach for my cell phone and hit speed dial, waiting for her to pick up. I hear a shaky breath, and a muffled sniffle, but I know she's there.

"Hey," I say softly, "I just wanted to check in on you; make sure you're OK. I know it never gets any easier."

"No, it doesn't," she acknowledges, and my heart breaks a little when I detect the tremor in her voice.

"I wish I could've been there to support you, Denise."

"Don't be silly. You've got yourself to take care of," she reminds me, and I'm relieved to hear the warmth in her tone. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm... coping," I hedge, with a rueful laugh. It's all I ever seem to do anymore. "I'm... uh... I'm going to stay with my parents for a while," I add, holding my breath as I await her response.

"What?" she demands, making a strangled noise in the back of her throat. "You're leaving?"

"Michael... Michael thinks it's for the best," I stammer, and I'm grateful that she can't see the tears pooling in my eyes, "Just until I'm back on my feet again."

"But your friends and your family are here, Claudia Joy. We can take care of you."

"I know." My voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper now, "But you've got enough on your plate. And so... so has Michael."

"Claudia Joy, you're acting like helping you out is some kind of hardship! You were there for me when _I _was sick; you looked after Molly, you did my chores, you made dinner for us," she points out, "Why is this any different?"

I heave a mournful sigh. "I just... I don't think Michael likes seeing me suffer like this, you know? I think it would be easier for him if I was in Connecticut."

"And what about you?" Denise says quietly, "What do you want?"

"I just... I want all of this to be over," I admit, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, biting back a sob.

"Oh, honey..." Denise sounds dismayed, "Do you want me to come over?"

"No!" As tempting as the offer is, I know I can't accept it. "Michael will be home soon," I clarify, taking a moment to compose myself. "Denise, I'm fine. Really. I just... I just wanted to let you know, that's all."

"When..." There's a lengthy pause, and I wonder what Denise is thinking, "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning," I inform her, regretfully. "I need to get settled before my next dialysis session."

"Then I'll stop by before work."

"Denise, you don't have to - "

"Claudia Joy..." her tone is raw with repressed emotion, "I want to, OK?"

I smile tearfully into the phone. "OK."

"Now go get some rest."

I hesitate, wanting to prolong the conversation, but I know I can't. "Goodnight, Denise," I eventually murmur, wondering if she can sense how reluctant I am to hang up.

"Goodnight."

I wait until she ends the call before I whisper, "_I love you,"_ and then I hate myself for saying it at all.

* * *

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, feeling repulsed by my own appearance. I allowed myself the luxury of soaking in a hot bath this morning, but I look far from refreshed. My skin has a yellowish tinge, and the bruises are only getting worse. My arms are spattered in a sea of livid purple, and now the discolouration is spreading to my thighs. If I walked into an emergency room looking like this, people would probably assume I'd been beaten and left for dead.

My haggard countenance doesn't help. I've slept more in the past few days than I have in months, but I still look exhausted. My eyes are bloodshot and lined with dark circles, and the wrinkles I've tried so hard to keep at bay are back with a vengeance. I've always taken pride in maintaining a slender physique, but now my collar bone is jutting out, my rib cage is protruding, and my arms look spindly. My legs are so thin, it's a wonder they can keep me upright, and with my restricted diet plan, I don't know if I'll be able to gain back the weight any time soon.

Even though my arms are still swathed in bandages, I'm painfully aware of the unsightly welts they're concealing. The catheters are only temporary – Dr Davies wants me to have an AV fistula to reduce the risk of infection and make my treatment more effective in the long term. It sounded fine in theory, until he handed me the accompanying leaflet and I realised my arm would be permanently deformed from the procedure; reduced to a twisted, lumpy mess. Even Michael could barely stop himself from recoiling in revulsion when he saw the pictures. I'm faced with the prospect of never being able to wear short sleeves again, or abandoning my last shred of vanity.

I hear a tentative knock on the bedroom door, and I can't help but smile. I gave Michael such a hard time for hovering over my shoulder while I was learning to inject myself with insulin, he's clearly learned his lesson about invading my privacy. My first instinct is to cover my skimpy negligee with a dressing gown, but I know Michael has to get used to seeing me like this. I want to see his reaction when he first opens the door; his unguarded response to my unsightly appearance. I'm scared of what I might learn in those few split seconds, but at least I'll know for sure whether my husband is disgusted by me; whether he's still capable of finding me attractive at my worst.

"Come in," I eventually capitulate. My feigned indifference flies out of the window when I see Denise standing in the doorway, and suddenly I'm lunging for something – anything – to cover my emaciated body.

She looks as shocked as I feel. "Michael said it was OK to come up," she hastily explains, and I can see she's frozen to the spot.

"It's fine... just.. give me a second." I turn my back to her and suck in a ragged breath, trying to look a little less overwhelmed. I'm about to tie the belt on my dressing gown when I feel her hand on my shoulder.

"I brought you some Arnica..." she says softly, "For the bruising. It's a herbal remedy, but it's supposed to work wonders."

"Maybe I should start buying it in bulk, then," I say, wryly, taking the tube of cream from her with a grateful smile. "I look like I've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson this morning."

"It's getting worse?" She hesitates, looking worried. "Do you... do you want me to take a look?"

"No!" I exclaim, a little too forcefully. My wide-eyed expression must reveal a whole lot more than I want it to.

"I'm a Nurse, Claudia Joy," Denise reminds me, and even though I know her motives are purely professional, my reaction to the thought of her seeing me like this definitely isn't.

"I don't need you to coddle me, Denise. I'm fine." My attempts to reassure her don't have the desired effect. Her concern is still tangible, and I find myself sighing resignedly.

"I look terrible," I warn her, ducking my head, and I try not to tremble when Denise reaches out to tuck some errant strands of hair behind my ear.

"Hey..." she says softly, lifting my chin until I'm forced to meet her gaze, "You could _never _look terrible."

I want to hug her, but I know I can't. She's regarding me expectantly, and so I reluctantly shed my dressing gown, cringing when I hear Denise's sharp intake of breath. I feel painfully exposed, but Denise gently grasps my wrist, stopping me from crossing my arms over my chest. I remind myself that she's just a friend, that her primal response to my appearance shouldn't matter to me, but I still can't bring myself to look at her.

"It's nothing to worry about, right?" I need the validation, but mostly I just want to break the silence.

"Right," she reassures me. "Do they hurt to the touch?" She runs her thumbs over the contusions on my arms, pressing lightly against them, and I shake my head. When she tenderly traces the outline of the bruise on my thigh, her touch is anything but painful, and I can't withhold a strangled gasp.

I hastily jerk away from her, and she looks a little taken aback.

"Claudia Joy, I'm not trying to..." She trails off, heaving an aggrieved sigh. "I love my husband," she concludes quietly, but there's an undercurrent of anger in her tone, "And I have no intention of hurting him again, OK?"

I don't know what to say to that, so I simply nod, reaching for my robe.

"Wait a second," she says, grabbing my hand, "Let me apply some Arnica to the tops of your arms. I know it must hurt to bend them," she elaborates, gesturing to the bandages that are encircling my elbows.

"That's OK - " I start to object, but Denise takes me by the shoulders and ushers me towards the bed.

"Claudia Joy, just... sit down."

She goes to the bathroom and washes her hands, and then sinks down besides me. I try not to react to her proximity, but I still feel consumed by it. She rubs in the cream without any preamble, and this time her touch is brusque; efficient. She's taking care not to hurt me, but her wilful detachment cuts me to the core. I bite my lip and turn my head away, and Denise's hand stalls against my shoulder.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you..." she says, and her fingertips briefly glance over my hand. "This is just... it's hard, that's all."

"I know." As soon as she's finished applying the ointment, I hastily pull on my robe. "Maybe... maybe this trip is for the best. It'll give us both some time to figure things out and then, when I get back, we can just... put all of this behind us."

Denise nods her agreement, but I'm not sure she's convinced. We stare at each other for a moment, and she looks as conflicted as I feel.

"God, I'm going to miss you," she suddenly blurts out, and her eyes are awash with tears.

"I'm going to miss you, too." My chest feels like it's going to implode, and I have to fight to keep my chin from trembling.

"We can hug, right?" Denise asks me beseechingly, "Friends are allowed to hug?"

I nod, and blindly reach for her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. Now I'm conscious of all the things I've never noticed before; our stomachs rising and falling together, her breath tickling the shell of my ear. We're so close, I can feel the curve of her breasts pressing against mine, and my nipples throb in response. This is supposed to be my sanctuary, but it doesn't feel safe anymore, not when I can hear my heart pounding in my ears; not when I can feel the adrenaline spiking through my veins. _Friends are allowed to hug, _I silently reiterate, even though I know we've already been clinging to each other for far too long. I can't bring myself to let go, though, and Denise isn't relinquishing her hold on me, either.

"I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee," Michael calls from the bottom of the stairs, and we instinctively spring apart. "Denise, do you want a cup?"

"I... no, thanks! I'm heading off to work in a second," she yells back, and we look at each other guiltily.

"Take care of yourself, Claudia Joy," she says, and I can see that she's on the verge of tears. I watch her leave, and then I make a beeline for the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

"Oh God," I whisper into thin air, swiping at my eyes. I collapse onto the toilet seat and bury my head in my hands, wondering how to make these traitorous feelings go away.

* * *

It only takes three weeks before my parents' sprawling house starts to feel claustrophobic, before their attentiveness seems like needless fussing. I'm a long way from feeling fit and healthy, but the dialysis is starting to become part of my everyday routine, and I've managed to avoid any nasty complications. I know I'm strong enough to make the journey home, so I make the necessary arrangements without telling Michael and decide to surprise him. I'm determined to show him that I can still be everything he needs, and I spend the trip home planning a romantic, home-cooked meal.

I call Denise on the way to the airport and ask her to pick up the ingredients for me, and I can't help but smile when I hear how excited she is about the prospect of me coming home. She's been calling me every other night, doing her best to cheer me up with anecdotes about Molly, Roxy and the FRG, and the distance has helped me to put things into perspective.

When I arrive back in Charleston, she's waiting for me, and although my heart lurches at the sight of her, when she throws her arms around me, it doesn't make my world shift on its axis and leave me questioning everything. I take that as a good sign.

"It's so wonderful to have you back," she proclaims, and it takes her a moment to release her grasp on my waist. She clears her throat and reaches for my suitcase, wheeling it towards the parking lot and slowing her stride to accommodate me. "I know you couldn't say much with your parents in the next room, so tell me, how was it really?"

"They were wonderful," I concede, "But they were fawning over me like I was some kind of invalid. My Mom wouldn't let me lift a finger to help."

Denise starts to laugh. "It sounds like you got some much-needed R&R," she teases.

"Are you kidding? If I'd stayed there any longer, I would've gone stir crazy. Trashy magazines and daytime soap operas are not my idea of a good time."

"Well, you're home now," she observes, reaching for my hand and squeezing it warmly. It feels comforting, like it used to, so I impulsively twine our fingers, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. We share a smile and walk back to the car in companionable silence, and I feel happier than I have in weeks.

* * *

"Claudia Joy, I didn't want to have this conversation in the car, but there's something I need to tell you," Denise says as she helps me unpack the groceries.

A wealth of possibilities race through my mind. "That sounds ominous," I joke, trying to make light of the situation.

"I wanted to discuss this with you before you left, but I didn't want to get your hopes up until I knew for sure that we were compatible."

I freeze en route to the fridge, slowly turning around to face her. "Denise, what are you talking about?"

"While you were in Connecticut, I took some tests to determine if I'm a suitable donor for you." She breaks into a cheek-splitting smile, "And it turns out... I am. The Doctors cross-matched our blood, ran some tissues samples, and they think I'm an ideal candidate."

I must look as stunned as I feel, because Denise has to spell it out for me.

"I want to be your life donor, Claudia Joy. I want to give you one of my kidneys."

For a moment, I'm too shocked to speak. Then I start shaking my head violently. "No," I say; a little too forcefully.

Denise looks crestfallen for a moment, and I realise that I'm supposed to be grateful, or elated - not horrified.

"Denise, it means so much to me that you would even think about doing this," I assure her, and I'm already choking back tears, "But I can't let you take that risk. I can't watch you suffering because of me."

"Claudia Joy, it's a routine procedure," she protests. "The chances of it going wrong are minuscule."

I clutch the kitchen counter for support, taking a moment to let my mind catch up with our conversation. "And what happens if you get sick later on down the line?"

"Then I'll still have a perfectly healthy kidney to fall back on," she counters.

"No," I say again. "Denise, a couple of months ago you were lying in a hospital bed, fighting for your life. You've been through enough already."

"And so have you," she tells me, walking across the room to take my hands in hers. "I'm not going to sit back and watch you live a miserable excuse for a life, Claudia Joy. Not when there's something I can do about it."

"But you've got Molly to think about," I remind her, drying my eyes on the sleeve of my blouse. "She's my God-daughter, Denise, I'm supposed to look out for her best interests, and that doesn't include having a mother who can't pick her up because she's recovering from major surgery. You won't be able to work for six weeks, you won't be able to drive - "

"And you don't think I'm willing to suffer a little inconvenience if it means giving you your life back?" She cups my face in her hands. "I love you, Claudia Joy, and I don't care how long it takes to wear you down, we're going to do this."

"What about Frank?" I demand weakly, "I know he can't be happy about this."

"Well, I don't really care what Frank thinks," she tells me, bluntly. "He expects me to sit at home worrying about him while he flies off to war; to spend every day wondering if he's going to come home in a body-bag. If he can't handle me having one operation, then that's his problem, not mine."

"Denise... I... I can't," I inform her despondently, and this is hurting me as much as it's hurting her.

"Just answer me one question, Claudia Joy," she commands, gripping my wrists. "Would you do this for me?"

My response is instantaneous. "Of course I would! You know that."

Her frustration is becoming more than apparent. "Then why are you fighting me on this?"

"Because you..." I fumble for a reason, "You've got more to lose, Denise."

She backs away from me then, and I can see that she's reached breaking point.

"You know what I'm afraid of losing?" she demands, and my heart wrenches when her voice starts to quiver, "I'm afraid of losing _you, _Claudia Joy," she concludes, brokenly. "So just... think about it, OK?"

"Denise, wait!" I implore, but she's already heading for the door. I hear it slam behind her, and then I sink onto the kitchen floor in a trembling heap, trying to process what the hell just happened.

* * *

I learned a long time ago that you should never make plans when you're in the Army, because they're invariably ruined. It's 8pm and Michael still isn't home. If I keep the dinner in the oven any longer, it won't be edible, so I resort to spoiling the surprise and ringing him at work.

"Claudia Joy, I'm just about to video-conference with General Ludwig, can it wait?" he asks, and then there's a lengthy pause, "Hang on a second, are you calling me from home?"

"Surprise!" I exclaim, wryly. "I'm sorry, Michael, I shouldn't have sprung this on you. I just... I wanted to do something nice for you, that's all. Next time I'll call ahead."

"No!" he protests, "Give me five minutes to re-schedule and I'll be right there."

I smile ruefully into the receiver. "Michael, really, it's fine. Stay; do what you've got to do."

"Are you sure?" he asks, and I can't help but think how nice it would be if, just for once, my husband didn't take my assurances at face value.

"I'll still be here when you get back," I point out, trying not to sound deflated.

"How am I supposed to concentrate on what General Ludwig has to say now?" he teases, but I know as soon as he hangs up, he'll be all business again.

"I'm sure you'll manage." It's an effort to keep my tone light-hearted. "I might... I might head over to Denise's for a couple of hours. Just call me when you get back."

"OK, well, I'll see you in a bit. I'm looking forward to it already," he informs me, and even though I can hear the affection in his tone, it's hard to believe it, because every time I give Michael a free pass, he takes it and runs.

* * *

My hands are shaking as I knock on Denise's door. She's already wearing her pyjamas and she looks surprised to see me, but she regards me hopefully. I don't even bother with the pleasantries.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I ask her, and I'm deadly serious. I study her face attentively and scrutinise her body language, looking for the faintest trace of doubt.

"Yes!" she exclaims breathlessly, and all I see is resolve. "Claudia Joy, this isn't a spur of the moment decision for me. I've had three weeks to think about it and I've discussed every eventuality with my Doctor. So please, let me do this for you." She regards me imploringly. "_Please."_

"Oh God," I whisper, and it takes a moment for the implications of saying "yes" to dawn on me. No more dialysis, no more running back and forth between my house and the hospital, no more feeling (and looking) like the walking dead. Denise isn't just giving me hope, she's giving me a future.

"Thank you," I whisper reverently. "Oh God, Denise, thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me." I fling my arms around her neck, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.

"You don't have to thank me, Claudia Joy. You've always been there for me, and now I'm in a position to return the favour," she tells me, smoothing a hand over my hair, "We'll get through this like we always do – together."

I bury my face in the crook of her neck, but I can't stop the tears from falling.

"Hey, come on," she cajoles, giving me a gentle squeeze, "You were the one who told me friendship lasts forever, right? Well, now, no matter where we're posted, you'll always have a part of me with you."

My heart is thudding, and I wonder how I can even begin to convey my appreciation. "This goes above and beyond friendship, Denise," I say, tearfully, "I don't know how I can ever - "

"Shhhh," she interjects, covering my lips with her finger. "You don't owe me anything, Claudia Joy, OK?"

I look at her, then, and her eyes are shining with the kind of unfettered love that got us into this predicament in the first place. Her finger moves from my mouth, to my cheeks, chasing away my tears, and I turn my head, pressing my lips into the palm of her hand.

"Denise, I..."

She must hear my unspoken question, because she cuts me off with a searing kiss. I clutch the fabric of her pyjamas and gasp into her mouth, pouring every ounce of the gratitude I'm feeling into my response. Hunger competes with tenderness as her lips melt into mine, and my skin ignites in a rush of sensation when she clasps my hips and edges me towards the sofa. I bury my hands in Denise's hair; caress the back of her neck; run my fingertips over her bare arms. I'm intent on exploring every inch of her before reality hits home again. When our tongues entangle for the first time, I feel her surge against me, and I silently wonder how we managed to hold out for this long.

"Jesus Christ," I hiss, because I'd forgotten that it could feel this good; I'd forgotten what it was like to lose myself in someone completely.

I kiss Denise like it's the first and last time I'll ever get the opportunity; intense and insistent one minute, slow and sensuous the next. She moans into my mouth, and I shudder in response. I kiss her until my knees start to tremble and my entire body's pulsating with need, and then I'm finally forced to pull back and collect myself. Denise clings to me convulsively, resting her forehead against mine.

"Claudia Joy - " she exhales, but she can't finish the sentence. Her breath is coming in shallow spurts, and my stomach quivers when I realise that she's every bit as aroused as I am. I nuzzle her neck and brush my lips against her collar bone, and she sighs, slumping against me. Her pyjama top has ridden up a little and I let my fingers skim under the hemline, caressing her lower back and running my nails bluntly along her spine. Her skin is so soft, so smooth, that my touch becomes almost reverent, and she shivers against me.

We tumble onto the couch and settle into the cushions. I take a moment to study Denise's features and appreciate her luminous beauty in a way I've never allowed myself to before. I was always wary of letting my gazes linger for too long, of being caught staring, but I don't have to content myself with stolen glances anymore. Now I drink in the sight of Denise sprawled beneath me. Her lips are parted, her chest is heaving, and when she opens her eyes to look at me, they're darker - more intense - than I've ever seen them before. I brush her bangs aside and kiss the scar on her forehead, then the mole on her temple and the cleft above her lip. She smiles at me; lazily, lovingly, and I know I'll never be able to look at her in the same way again.

She reaches for me, then, pulling me half on-top of her, and I straddle her thigh, groaning at the feel of her pressing against me. This time, when our lips collide, I slip my hand under the front of her top, stroking her stomach; tracing the curve of her hips.

"Please," she whispers urgently. I watch every nuance of her reaction as I tentatively palm her breasts; the way she licks her lips and squeezes her eyes shut, the way her bronzed skin flushes pink. She isn't wearing a bra, and when I finally summon the courage to thumb her nipples, she wantonly grinds against me. The clamorous rushing in my head gets even louder, and I inch up the fabric of Denise's top, kissing and licking my way along her ribcage until she's squirming underneath me. She sits up a little, pulling it off, and I realise we've officially reached the point of no return when I find myself mesmerised by the sight of her breasts. I drag my knuckles over her swollen nipples and then replace my hands with my mouth, trying – somehow - to repay the debt I owe her.

Denise threads her fingers through my hair as I lavish her breasts with attention, and her appreciative whimpers only exacerbate the throbbing between my thighs. I lean into the seam of my tailored pants, and it gives me a small measure of relief, but it's nothing compared to the heady rush I feel when Denise rolls her hips and arches into me.

My hands are shaking as I reach for the waistband of Denise's pyjama pants, because even though I know what I want to do next, I'm not entirely sure how to go about it. Some drunken fumbling in college didn't prepare me for this. I'm aching to touch her, though, so I cast aside my performance anxiety and encourage her to shrug off her pants, leaving her clad in just a sliver of cotton and lace. I trace the outline of the pretty design and then turn my attention to her legs, kissing her knees, stroking her thighs, massaging her buttocks. I can feel the heat emanating from between her legs as they tremble in response. I take it as an invitation, and cup her crotch through the damp fabric of her underwear, using the palm of my hand to exert a little pressure on what I hope is an erogenous zone. Denise makes a noise that's somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and my heart crumples when I see the lone tear trickling down her cheek. I tenderly wipe it away, pulling back to give her some breathing space.

"Denise, if this is too much - " I can barely get the words out.

"No!" she exclaims, shaking her head violently. She clutches my hand, twining our fingers, and then looks at me with an expression that's pure desperation. "Don't stop," she murmurs, brokenly, "God, it feels so... please, don't stop."

I kiss her softly, soothingly. "Just promise me..." I clear my throat because my voice is too thick, too raw, "Promise me this isn't going to ruin our friendship; because kidney or no kidney; I need you, Denise."

"I need you, too," she assures me, but I flinch when she moves to unbutton my shirt. After seeing Denise's jaw-dropping physique, I feel even more self-conscious about the battle scars marring my own body.

"It's OK," she assures me, stroking my cheek. "Claudia Joy, I want to see you. I want to _feel _you – all of you."

She edges the shirt over my shoulders, and sets about kissing away my reservations. The feel of her lips on my bare skin – hot, damp, electric - eclipses everything else and this time, I don't hesitate. I pull her into a lingering kiss, and then slip my hand inside of her underwear, groaning at how soft; how wet she is.

"Oh, God. That's... oh, God..." she breathes, gripping my wrist and bucking against my hand as I begin softly stroking her.

I feel a little clumsy at first, but then I put all of those nights I spent on my own to good use. I do to Denise what I did to myself when Michael was away for months at a time. She hums her approval, and I find myself watching her again, captivated by her unchecked expressions. My heart swells every time her eyelids flutter shut and my stomach clenches every time a satisfied smile plays on her lips. Her hands splay across the sofa, fist around a cushion, and then settle against my back, and I try not to be distracted by the way she's jerking against me, or her intermittent caresses. When I ease two fingers inside of her, flexing them against her walls, she throws her head back and mumbles something incoherent, pursing her lips. Then she opens her eyes, blindly reaching for me, interrupting the rhythm I worked so hard to establish by pulling me into a frantic kiss. She strokes my thighs and kneads my breasts, and I'm nearly delirious with pleasure now.

Determined not to give up the fight, I curl my fingers inside of her and speed up my pace, letting my thumb brush erratically against what I now know to be her most sensitive spot. She cries out my name, and then I can feel her convulsing around me, shuddering against me, clutching feebly at my shoulders. I've seen Denise crying inconsolably, I've seen her lying helplessly in a hospital bed, but I've never seen her this vulnerable. The way she's looking at me makes my chest ache, so I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, cradling her against me. I feel her tears pooling in my clavicle, dripping down my cleavage, and I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that we can never take this back. What scares me more is that I'm not sure I want to.

"I love you," I whisper into her hair, as if that somehow justifies our decision to consummate over a decade's worth of repressed yearning. I know I should hate myself right now, I know I should be making a beeline for the door, but when Denise pulls back and smiles at me, like I'm her whole world, it somehow feels like it was worth it.

She lays a hand on my thigh, and then hesitates. "I've never... I don't..." she stutters, but I kiss away her insecurities.

"Trust me, you're doing fine," I reassure her, and it's the understatement of the century, because Michael's never made me feel like this. I'm wound so tight that when Denise finally touches me, it's like being sucked into a vortex and propelled into oblivion, and I don't know if I can claw my way back. If I had any choice, I wouldn't be going home tonight. I would be staying right here, where I belong.


End file.
